Bad Place Alone
by vespertine dreams
Summary: After going through the anomaly in the old house, Patrick Quinn finds himself alone in a vicious world. Learning to survive the creatures is only the start. Rated high for a reason- full list of warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: This can be read as a prequel / companion to Behind Closed Doors. I like to think there is a good reason why Patrick is so screwed up, and also why he took the name Ethan and killed those people in Russia.

The title is taken from Alice Cooper's "Bad Place Alone".

Warnings: All chapters. Minor spoilers for series 4. Violence, borderline non-con, possible underage (age not specified), prostitution, stealing, death, murder, creature attacks, homophobia and homophobic attack, mentions of incest (brotherly), mentions of threesome.

Please read the warnings first and if anything is likely to bother you then it is up to you whether or not you read on.

* * *

><p><span>Bad Place Alone<span>

The light had just vanished after he stepped through and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't find it again. There had been these little things with pointy teeth that had attacked them- Oh God it had attacked Matt. He remembered hearing the scream, racing to ward the sound and seeing the other boy on the ground. There was so much blood; the creature crouched over him looking up as Patrick came into the room. It snarled and launched itself at him.

He had run when it chased him, barely even noticing the sparkling lights in his haste to get away. Then there was nothing.

Patrick looked around at the strange surroundings. He was no longer in the house, but where the hell was he? There was dirt underfoot and the remains of a building further down the hillside but nothing looked even vaguely familiar. He pinched his arm, hard, but still he remained there; he had been hoping that this was all some kind of a crazy dream and that he'd wake up in his bed at home.

Trying not to panic as he heard a sound nearby, he turned to look. Maybe it was Ryan, he thought. Maybe the other boy had run through the lights as well. Deep down he knew it wasn't; Ryan had been downstairs at the time. He wouldn't have had time to get upstairs and through the light before it vanished. A second later Patrick heard a low growl and the sound of stealthy footsteps scuffing on the ground but there was nothing there. Then again, he hadn't see the gremlin-looking things at first, had he? When the one near Matt had started to chase him, a second one had appeared as though from nowhere, suddenly becoming visible against the cream wallpaper.

He heard the scuffling sound again but this time from the opposite direction and his heart began to pound. There was something out there, multiple somethings, and they were stalking him.

Patrick was torn between staying near the place where the light had vanished, in case it came back, and getting somewhere safer. Eventually, self-preservation won out and he started walking toward the ruins, his pace speeding up as he heard them again, nearby.

That night, Patrick sat huddled in the corner of the ruined building, clutching a thick piece of wood. He had managed to grind one end to a rough point on the stone floor he sat on.

_Great, now I can stake vampires_, he thought as he examined his handiwork. He smiled to himself, thinking just how ridiculous that sounded.

He hadn't seen another person since arriving wherever the hell he was, only a few animals but even those weren't right. There were other things in this place, though. He heard them moving about, heard the snuffling breaths as they went by on the other side of the wall. Sometimes they paused right outside as though they knew he was in here and Patrick tried to keep as still as he could as he waited for them to go away again. He really wished Danny was here; his brother had looked out for him his entire life, defending him if he got bullied at school or taking the blame if his mum got angry about something. Danny did that a lot; he often got grounded for something that hadn't been his fault and, on those occasions, Patrick would stay inside with him rather than go out to play with his friends. Danny had done it so that he wouldn't get into trouble and so the least he could do was stay in and keep his brother company.

Right now, he would have given anything just to have someone else here with him. Every noise in the darkness made his heart race just that little bit more, the fear and uncertainty of not knowing where he was or what was out there causing tears that he refused to allow to fall. He wouldn't cry: crying was for girls. He didn't want to let his brother down by acting like a wimp.

Feeling tired but still unwilling to close his eyes and leave himself vulnerable to this place, he gripped the stake tighter and maintained his vigil. Eventually he succumbed to sleep, eyelids drooping despite his best efforts to remain awake.

_Tom__orrow, everything will be okay_, he thought as he fell asleep. _Danny will come and get me_.

The next day arrived but his brother didn't. Patrick knew he would, though. After all, Danny always looked out for him, had promised to never let anything bad happen to him. Danny would come for him.

In the meantime, he had to do something. He had already looked for the lights again, hoping that it might come back or that there would be another way out of here, but it didn't. He would just have to wait, but that didn't mean that he was just going to sit here and feel sorry for himself. His stomach growling reminded him that he was hungry but a search of his pockets found nothing edible. Well, he'd just have to do something about that. Head held high and the stake in his hand, just in case, he set out in the direction of the other structures he'd seen.

There were more ruins here, the remains of what had once been a city. Most of the stonework was crumbling though some of the walls remained, the roof in broken heaps on the ground with a thick layer of foliage growing over the top of them. Whatever had happened here, it had been a long time ago.

Maybe that's what this place was; another world. Just like they had the ruins of the Aztec or Inca civilisations, maybe in this world this was their past. A few weeks ago, when their parents went out and left Danny looking after him, they had watched Stargate. A friend of Danny's had a video copy that they had loaned him and now Patrick found himself thinking how scarily similar the situation was. He had walked through a sparkly light, kind of like the Stargate, and ended up in another place. At any other time, he would have been fascinated by this, excited even, but the thought just terrified him. No one knew where he was; hell, even he didn't know where he was. His mum would be worried sick when he didn't go home, and what about Matt's parents? What if Ryan hadn't survived? There would be no one to tell them what happened. They might think that _he_ had hurt his friends and then run away, and he couldn't even be there to tell his side, to explain about the weird animals.

Patrick forced himself to stop thinking about his friends, trying to rid his mind of the image of Matt's body on the floor, all clawed and bloodied. He had to find something to drink, even if he couldn't find food and he moved cautiously through the broken streets, the search taking his mind away from that house.

Every so often, he heard sounds from inside the buildings, a scuffling deep in the darkness, but he didn't stop to investigate. Instinct told him that he was better off not knowing what was in there, and what might be watching him. Outside the buildings it was fairly quiet. From his experiences last night, he realised that the animals here were much more active in the darkness but he didn't want to take any chances. He kept to the middle of the street to give himself time to see anything trying to sneak up on him, constantly scanning the area.

A gate led him into what had once been a garden of some kind, a crumbling stone wall surrounding the area that now resembling more of a jungle than a garden. The plants had run wild, thick grasses tangled in among the thorny branches of an ivy-like plant that had spread across the entire space.

Patrick could hear the faint trickling of water from somewhere in the middle of it and knew that he needed to get to it, so he started to pick his way through the foliage. The thorns were brutal, about two or three centimetres long and sharp as needles as they ripped into his skin, even through his jeans, but he kept going. Using the heavy stake he still carried to hack a path through them he managed to get to the source of the sound.

In the middle of this dreadful place, among the vicious plants and destruction, was a narrow channel of water. The crystal clear stream bubbled serenely through a small stone arch in the base of the wall and eventually vanished under the thorn bushes. There was a slightly clearer area next to it and Patrick crouched, cupping his hands and cautiously lifting some of the water to his lips.

It tasted like heaven. After a night and most of a morning with nothing to drink, the cool water tasted better than anything he could think of.

As he drank his fill, Patrick looked around at the rest of the garden. This might not be a bad place to wait, he thought: the walls were crumbling but there was still a good five feet left of them all the way around, and only one way in. The thorns would keep out whatever was prowling about in the darkness, and also give him an early warning if anything did come in. He had tried to walk quietly through them but it was impossible, the dead branches under the bushes snapping loudly each time he set his feet down.

Or so he thought.

It should have occurred to him that if he was using the stream for water, then other things might be too, but it didn't, not until he saw the dark blur out of the corner of his eye. It was one of the gremlin-looking creatures, like the ones back at the house, and it dived on him from the top of the wall before he could get out of the way. Patrick put his arm up to fend the creature off whilst frantically grabbing for the stake with his other hand, shouting in pain as the creature's claws tore down his forearm.

His fingers curled around the end of the stake and he brought it up with as much force as he could, hitting the creature so hard around the side of its head that it was knocked into the bushes. It lay there for a few moments, stunned, before getting to its feet once more. From the look on its face as it snarled at Patrick, if he let it get back up, it would kill him.

He just couldn't do it, he thought as he stood, stake held aloft, poised to hit the creature again. He couldn't kill it.

The creature sensed his weakness and pounced again, sinking its teeth into his ankle and this time there was no hesitation. He hit it and hit it until it let go, dropping back into the bushes, bleeding. It didn't get up again.

"Oh God…" Patrick dropped the stick and backed away, looking in horror at the dead creature.

Patrick moved as far away from the dead animal as he could while he checked his wounds. Aside from the bite to his ankle and the claw marks down his arm, there were numerous scratches to his legs from the thorns. He couldn't clean them up with anything but water from the stream but it would have to be enough. He could get them treated properly when he got home.

~.~

The bites and scratches healed over, luckily without becoming infected, and Patrick found himself a place to hide in one of the ruins next to the garden. Having explored a little he found that this was easily defendable, like the garden, but it had the benefit of a roof so that there were no more nasty surprises as things jumped the wall to attack him. It was also close to the stream, giving him fresh water to drink.

Food, however, was a different problem. There was a tree which overhung the garden wall bearing odd-looking pink fruits but one meal of them told him why nothing else had been eating them. The bitter taste had his stomach in knots after a few minutes and he had spent the next few hours alternately throwing up or in a cold sweat. By the end of it he was so weak and exhausted that he could have quite happily unblocked his door and let the animals have him. That was, if he had the energy to get up and go to the door.

Eventually it passed, though it left him dehydrated and he had to force himself to get up and go back to the stream to drink. He never touched the fruits again, and as hungry as he was, even the other berries he saw on some of the bushes and creepers filled him with dread at the thought of eating one. That left only one other option: Meat.

The first time Patrick managed to catch something- a small rodent that had found its way into the room he was hiding in- he felt so bad from having killed it that he could barely face touching it, let alone eating it. However, it was becoming clear that he had very little choice in the matter if he wanted to stay alive. He could still remember how to build a fire and light it from his short stint in the Scouts and so he lit one in the doorway, just outside, so that the smoke wouldn't fill the room.

It was revolting. Roasted rodent tasted like eating a piece of rubber; chewy, stringy and the taste was awful. A small part of him preferred the poisonous fruit. Still he ate it, telling himself that it could be worse; he could be eating it raw.

~.~

Days and then weeks passed and still Danny never came for him. Maybe no one was even looking for him, he thought miserably one night as he tried to sleep despite the growls outside, or the scrape of claws or snuffling breaths going past his hiding place. Maybe Danny didn't want him back. He knew that he was mum's favourite- Danny teased him about it often enough- and his parents were definitely easier on him than they were on Danny. With him out of the way, then he could be their favourite. No, Danny wouldn't do that to him. No matter how much they squabbled sometimes, he knew that his brother loved him.

Still, no one came for him and the tiny doubts began to grow, to eat away at him, the more he thought about it. Each day was the same, the hunt for food, fending off the various creatures. He was getting pretty good at catching the rat-like creatures now, and the taste, while still awful, was growing more tolerable.

~.~

One night, as he looked out of the doorway to the stone room, he saw something which made his spirits leap. There was a light up on the hillside. A shimmering light that looked oh so familiar.

Grabbing the stake and checking the area for creatures, he set off at a run. He was going home.

~.~.~

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

Bad Place Alone (2/4)

Patrick looked around in dismay at the wide open meadow before him, hoping that maybe the light had just sent him back somewhere different to the house where he'd been to begin with.

A small lizard with huge green wings flew overhead, landing in a nearby tree along with three others. It saw Patrick watching it and uttered a chattering sound, the others all responding as they scattered from the tree, flying away from him.

Patrick sank to the ground with tears in his eyes, not knowing what to do next. He had been so sure that once he stepped through that light he would be home.

~.~

This place was easier to live in than the last one, he decided a few days later. There was a river nearby, with deep, clear pools that were perfect for bathing in or catching fish to eat. The fish definitely tasted better than the little rat-like critters he had been living on in the other place. What he didn't have was four walls and a roof to shelter in, instead being forced to sleep up in the branches of a tree. It wasn't perfect, or even comfortable, but at least he was out of reach of the animals on the ground.

They were different here. He hadn't seen any of the Gremlin-things, and he was glad about that, but here there were worse things. A few months ago, he would have thought that he was going crazy if he saw a dinosaur wandering about, but that was then. The animals here were definitely dinosaurs; he recognised them from when Danny had taken him to see Jurassic Park at the cinema. Which meant that the other place might not have been another world. Maybe it had been another time.

Patrick sighed to himself; yep, crazy.

He had no idea how long he stayed there, keeping lookout for the gateway, as he now thought of it, to reappear. He had fashioned a wooden lean-to for himself in a sheltered part of the tree line, the sticks and grasses disguising it keeping some of the local wildlife away. Other animals still found him, though, but he had no trouble dispatching them. Actually, cooked dinosaur tasted rather like chicken, he discovered. After all, waste not, want not. He had managed to find pieces of flint that were sharp enough to use as defence against them, or to cut the meat from the carcasses to cook over his fire. What he hadn't worked out was what to do about clothes. His own were now too tight and ragged in places, ripped from various animal attacks or getting snagged on branches but he had nothing else.

One day as he sat in the branches of a tall tree, collecting some of the fruits to have with his fish for tea, he saw something. A glimmer near the water caught his eye but there was no mistaking it. The gateway was back.

Patrick almost tumbled out of the tree in his haste, scrambling down from the branches as fast as he could but even then it was too late. He was barely half way there when it began to pulse before finally vanishing again. It did, however, leave something behind.

He could hardly believe his eyes as the three men and two women began walking toward him. People. He hadn't seen people in what now seemed like years. They were odd in their clothing and speech, two of them looking like something out of a Victorian costume drama, another in what looked like fifties clothing and the other woman in a mixture of animal hides. The last man wore army combat trousers and a khaki jacket. None of them fit together but then he wondered what he looked like, a scruffy kid in too-small clothes, with his hair hacked short again with his flint knives.

"Do you speak English, young man?" The man in the Victorian garb approached him slowly, tentatively, as though not to scare him. ""What's your name, boy?"

Patrick opened his mouth to answer but it took him three attempts to find his voice, and even then it sounded rough from not being used. It occurred to him that this was the first time he'd actually spoken in months, maybe years.

"Patrick."

The others came forward then, all except the man in the khaki jacket, asking him all kinds of questions like who was he travelling with, where had he come from, and all marvelling when he told them he had been here alone for years. The women cooed over him, making sympathetic noises as he told them of the place he'd been before this.

"Leave him be," the man in khaki said eventually. "He doesn't need your fussing; he's survived here on his own maybe for years. He's not a child in need of looking after."

Patrick smiled at him, feeling himself stand up just that little bit straighter at the compliment. The man stepped forward.

"The name's Kristof," he said, holding out his hand for Patrick to shake before introducing the others. "Now, you are welcome to remain with us, if you wish. Some of us have been travelling the gateways for a many years; I'm sure that you have questions."

Patrick agreed instantly, seeing the worried looks that passed between the others and misinterpreted.

"On second thoughts, it might not be such a good idea-"

The man in fifties clothing, Edward, shook his head hastily. "Nonsense, lad. We'd be glad to have you with us."

It appeared that the odd band of travellers had come well prepared, Patrick thought as they unpacked canvasses to make tents, and other supplies, setting up camp near to where Patrick's lean-to was. Kristof wanted to see where Patrick had been living, and Patrick felt proud as anything as the man complimented him on the use of the flints and his hastily-learned survival skills.

"If you like, I could show you how to make the flints into more effective tools," he offered. Looking over Patrick's attire, he added, "I may have some things that would fit you too."

For the first time, Patrick actually felt like an adult in the way Kristof treated him. At home, he had still been a kid and everyone treated him like one, even Danny at times. Not Kristof, though. He found Patrick some clothes that fit, and showed him how to make the flints into axes, similar to Indian tomahawks, the flint blade bound to a wooden handle with strong pieces of vine. He spent most of his time with the older man, whether it was going out hunting for dinner or just Patrick showing him the cool things he'd found since arriving here.

"Why don't you sleep in my tent tonight," Kristof offered one evening as they turned in. "It doesn't let in as much of a draft as your lean-to."

Patrick shivered against the wind and had to admit that it sounded like a good idea. His hut was fine in warm weather, but it did let in the wind.

"Thank you, Kristof," Patrick told him as he settled down in the empty space in the tent.

When Patrick awoke in the middle of the night to the feel of Kristof's hand around his middle, pulling him back against the other man's body, he tried to edge away again, uncomfortable with the other man's over-familiarity. Kristof held him tight and as he turned over to look at the other man, Kristof just smiled.

"Its okay, Patrick," he said quietly, his hand slipping lower on Patrick's waist, over his arse.

Patrick flinched as Kristof's lips pressed to his, the man's other hand going to his neck to stop him from backing away. It wasn't like he hadn't been kissed before, but that had been little more than a quick peck on the lips from a girl in his class at school. This was different, not to mention that he had never been kissed by a boy before. Even though there had been brief flashes of interest back home toward other boys, he never acted on it. As he tried to wriggle out of Kristof's grip again, he heard the other man's breathing catch, his hips pressing against Patrick's. He could feel the press of Kristof's groin against his, the other man hard in his trousers as he rubbed against Patrick.

Kristof pulled away and Patrick wondered if maybe he could leave, escape back to his lean-to, but he never got the chance.

"Relax, Patrick," Kristof said, reaching between them to unzip his trousers before taking Patrick's wrist and directing his hand to where he wanted it. "I've been helping you now you can do something for me. Does that sound fair?"

It did, Patrick thought. After all, Kristof had given him clothes and helped him catch food and make weapons, and what else did he have to repay Kristof's kindness with? It wasn't even as scary as he was expecting, he realised, using his hands on Kristof until he came, after which Kristof let him go to sleep.

The next night, when Kristof told him to sleep in the tent, he did, expecting that he would use his hands on the other man again before they went to sleep but this time, Kristof shook his head.

"Take off your clothes, Patrick."

Patrick did so hesitantly, wondering where this was leading, carefully laying his clothing in the corner of the tent. It was awkward as the tent wasn't high enough for him to stand upright except in the centre.

"Kneel down," Kristof instructed, moving to stand in the middle of the tent, watching with a satisfied look on his face. "That's better. Each night, you'll remove your clothing before you come to bed."

"But it's cold-"

The slap took him by surprise and he raised a hand to the faint stinging across his cheek.

"Don't back talk me, Patrick." Kristof reached down and stroked his hand across the mark his hand had left. "I didn't want to do that, but you made me by arguing with me. You want to make me happy, don't you? To show me that you appreciate the things I've given you? We could just let you go back to where you were, on your own, if you'd prefer."

Patrick shook his head, the thought of going back to that solitary existence, never having anyone to watch his back or just to talk to him one that made fear clench at his heart.

"No. Please don't send me away."

Kristof smiled. "Good lad." He began to open his trousers, letting them slip down to his knees, and stroked his already-hard cock a few times. When Patrick reached for him, he shook his head. "Not this time. We're going to do something else. Now, open your mouth."

With Kristof's hand on the back of his head, pushing him closer, Patrick had no choice but to do as he was told. He was shaking as Kristof slid his cock into Patrick's mouth, making him gag at the unfamiliar sensation, tears forming in his eyes as he did his best not to choke.

"That's it; you're a natural," Kristof told him, hips thrusting gently at first, pushing more of his cock between Patrick's lips. "You can take more, can't you? I know you can. Now, suck it… use your tongue… Good, Patrick."

Keeping his fingers clenched in Patrick's hair, Kristof's movements hastened until he thrust forward, his cock touching the back of Patrick's throat as he came. Patrick struggled, his eyes tearing up again as he fought for breath, eventually being forced to swallow around Kristof.

Despite everything, when Kristof patted his hair in a surprisingly tender gesture and told him that he had done good, he couldn't help feel a tiny swell of pride. He let the other man pull him close as they lay down, Kristof's body wrapped around his naked back, keeping him warm.

This became his routine; spend the day with the others or with Kristof before returning to the tent each night. Not wanting to displease Kristof, and to be punished, Patrick would be ready and waiting on his knees, his clothes neatly folded in the corner, when Kristof came into the tent. He was learning to control his reflexes and stop himself gagging, no longer feeling his eyes tear up when Kristof took what he wanted.

One evening, Kristof came storming into the tent after an argument with one of the other men. Patrick was waiting for him, his hands going to unfasten the other man's belt, but Kristof pushed his hands away. Had he done something wrong? He wondered nervously. Was Kristof angry with him for something?

"Do you want to please me, Patrick?" Kristof asked.

Patrick nodded. Of course he did. "Yes sir."

"Lay down on your back." Patrick tensed as Kristof's fingers brushed over his arse, teasing at the hole. "Has anyone touched you like this before, Patrick?"

"No sir." He wasn't naïve. Before coming here he had, as every other boy in his early teens had, looked at illicit pictures with his friends. He'd even looked at a gay mans magazine once that they'd found, the others looking faintly revolted as he had tried to hide his curiosity and interest. He'd wondered, dreamed even, but never more than that.

"Tell me that you want me to do this. I need to hear you say it, Patrick."

"Yes." Of course he wanted Kristof to be pleased with him, and if this was what Kristof wanted…

Patrick lay back and turned his face to the side of the tent as Kristof invaded his body. It hurt as Kristof filled him, taking him roughly with nothing more than saliva to ease the way, but Patrick bit his lip to stop himself from making a sound. Maybe it was only meant to feel good for the other person; it wasn't like he knew from experience. If it made Kristof happy, though, then he'd give him what he wanted. He did owe the other man after all.

~.~

He saw the looks that the others would cast him sometimes if they saw him sitting awkwardly or saw a new bruise on him, a mixture of sympathy and concern in their eyes. Occasionally someone would ask if he was alright, or if there was anything he might want to talk about in private. He knew what they meant, having seen how they acted around Kristof. It was as though they were scared of him; his orders were followed immediately, and they only ever asked Patrick if he was alright when they knew that Kristof wouldn't hear them. His reply was always the same, though; he was fine. It was just as Kristof said, he was just repaying the man's kindness. And it was better than being left behind again. Everyone else abandoned him- no one had come for him, not even the one person he had believed in more than anything in the world: Danny. Kristof wanted him around and he wasn't going to do anything to jeopardise that.

The first time that Patrick had felt fingers pressing to his throat as Kristof fucked him, he had panicked, but he was assured that it was okay. He had actually been starting to enjoy sex with Kristof, even if Kristof was a bit too rough with him, but feeling his windpipe being slowly closed off, even as Kristof continued to thrust into him, was scaring him. He gasped for breath, trying to get out from Kristof's grasp but that only seemed to spur the other man on. He had realised before that the more he struggled, the more Kristof seemed to like it.

His games grew more extreme and part of Patrick wanted to run, but where to? He was living in Kristof's tent, wearing clothes he'd given him. One night, Patrick saw the glint of metal in the man's hand, moments before the cold blade was trailed down his chest.

The tip of the blade caught the base of his throat, cutting the skin, at the same time as Kristof thrust into him. Patrick tried to hold his breath, to stop his chest rising and coming closer to the blade again, but it was impossible to remain still and he felt the blade catch again, a trickle of blood running over his skin.

This was it, he thought. He wasn't stupid; he knew that one day Kristof would go too far and this was the day. As Kristof cut him again, Patrick once more held back the curse threatening to spill from his lips at the pain it caused. He didn't want to be punished for making a noise when he had been told not to.

Each cut was just that little bit deeper, hurting him more than the rest, and with each flinch he was unable to keep back, Kristof smiled nastily.

Now or never, a little voice in Patrick's mind told him. He had to do it now before Kristof hurt him too much.

Mustering whatever courage he could find, Patrick reached up and grabbed the hand holding the knife before it could come into contact with his flesh again.

"Let go of me, Patrick, and we'll overlook this," Kristof told him in a low voice. "I won't ask you again."

Patrick held onto his hand, forcing it back. The last time he'd done something wrong, Kristof had hit him so hard that he had split Patrick's lip and left him with a black eye for the next week. If he gave in now, Kristof would kill him.

The other man backhanded him with his free hand but Patrick held on, managing to kick himself free from under Kristof. Once his legs were free he kicked Kristof as hard as he could in the groin, snatching the knife away as the other man's grip faltered. He shut out the threats and promises that Kristof was snarling at him but he wasn't expecting it when he was tackled to the ground again.

Suddenly, Kristof's face went slack, his eyes registering surprise, as he fell backwards. To Patrick, it all seemed to happen in slow motion as he fell back, hands clutching at the knife embedded in his gut. Patrick looked down as his hands in horror, looking at where the knife had been only seconds before. He hadn't meant to do it; it had been instinctual to defend himself.

Patrick scrambled from the tent, landing on all fours in the grass as his stomach tried to throw up anything he'd eaten that day. Seeing movement out of his eye corner he got to his feet and fled, seeking refuge in the trees.

Moments later, he heard footsteps.

"Patrick? I'm not angry at you; I just want to make sure that you're not hurt."

He frowned. That was Charlotte's voice. Why would she want to help him? Shivering as the cold wind swept over his naked body, he winced as the cuts pulled with each movement. At least if he went back, it would be warm. And if they wanted to punish him for what he'd done then so be it. It would mean that this nightmare might actually be over.

"I'm here."

~.~

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3

Bad Place Alone (3/4)

Charlotte's reaction when she saw him was anything but what he had expected. There was no hatred or disgust in her eyes, just sympathy.

"I brought you some clothes," she said, holding out a pair of trousers and a jacket to him and waiting until he took them. "I saw you leave his tent and so I got them before I followed you."

Patrick stopped dead in the middle of fastening his trousers. "You saw him? I swear, I didn't mean to!"

"Patrick, it's alright. I saw what he did to you, we all did. I wish to God that I had the courage to step in and stop him before it reached this point but I worried what he would do to me. I'm sorry." Taking his hand she led him back to her tent, where she sat him down and found a cloth to clean the cuts on his chest.

"Charlotte, what happened?"

Patrick tried to hide himself in the shadows as Jacob came to the entrance. When he saw Patrick, his eyes flicked quickly over the cuts and the expressions on their faces, and then looked to Kristof's tent.

"He's dead," Charlotte informed him.

Jacob nodded. "I can't say that I'm sorry to hear that," he said softly. "Charlotte, could you excuse us for a moment? I would like to speak to Patrick." Seeing her hesitation, he smiled. "I won't be long."

As Charlotte left, Jacob came in and crouched down next to Patrick, being careful not to get too close to him, his tone soft and calming.

"I know that Charlotte is looking after you but I wanted to make sure that you were alright," he said. "This is awkward for me to ask, but did he hurt you anywhere else? Maybe something that you wouldn't feel comfortable speaking to Charlotte about?"

Patrick knew what he meant but he felt nothing beyond the usual soreness from when Kristof had been rough with him. He had almost stopped noticing that after the first few times.

"No sir."

Jacob frowned. "It's just Jacob, not sir."

"Sorry. Jacob, what am I going to do? When the others find out…"

"I'll take care of it," Jacob promised, going back outside.

Patrick heard a brief exchange with Charlotte before the young woman came back inside, continuing cleaning him up and applying a herbal healing paste to the wounds.

"You were lucky that he didn't do more damage," she said. "You weren't the first."

Patrick felt his blood run cold at the look on her face. "What do you mean?"

"There was another boy. Kristof brought him along when he first joined us. His name was Lucas; he was about the same age as you. Kristof used to mistreat him, too, and one night he vanished." She paused, remembering. "Kristof told us that they had a disagreement and that Lucas had run away. He said that he tried to find him but we didn't believe him. We found Lucas's body the next morning, and it was clear that the wounds had been done with blades and hands rather than animal claws. Jacob confronted him, accusing Kristof of having a hand in his death, but Kristof reacted furiously. He beat Jacob so badly that he broke his arm. When he started showing interest in you we knew it was beginning again but we thought that by interfering, we might make it even worse for you."

He could hardly comprehend what he was hearing; he had known earlier tonight that something had changed but hearing about his predecessor confirmed it.

The following morning, he emerged from his old lean-to to find that all signs of Kristof had been erased. His tent was gone, as were any of his belongings. The only thing that still remained was the khaki jacket that Charlotte had brought him to put on last night. She had picked it up in error but Patrick kept hold of it. It was warmer than anything he had; who knew when it would be needed? In the camp, everyone greeted him as though nothing was wrong, offering him some breakfast.

"They only know that he's gone," Jacob told him quietly. "They think he left us; only Charlotte and I know differently."

Patrick tried to carry on as normal but every time he went into the camp, his eyes were drawn to the place where Kristof's tent had been. He remembered the horror he'd felt when he realised that the knife had gone into the other man, killing him. If he could have left, he would, but where would he go? There was no way out of this place until a gateway opened.

So, he stayed with the others but spent as much time away from camp as he could. He was good at hunting, even better now that he had the small axes that Kristof had helped him make. He had finished the bow and arrows that he had been making too, the arrows tipped with small triangles of sharp flint, and he found that he could take down an animal much more efficiently. It sometimes made him wonder when exactly he had stopped caring when he killed an animal for their dinner, when he had stopped fretting over the life he'd taken. Maybe one day it would be the same with Kristof. Maybe he could stop seeing the look in his eyes as he died or seeing the blood pooling around the knife handle every time he closed his eyes.

Three weeks later, a gateway opened up in the hills. It couldn't be seen from camp and the only reason he noticed it was because he was out catching their lunch. He almost went back to get them, to tell them about it, but something made him reconsider. He could just go through and leave all of this behind. There would be no more reminders of what had happened, or an empty place where there should be another tent. There would be no more pitying looks or curious questions as to what made their errant companion decide to leave so suddenly.

With a final glance back in the direction of camp, Patrick stepped through the gateway.

Another gateway, another place. It usually took him a little while to adjust to the new surroundings and find out what kind of predators were lurking in the shadows, but this was different. He stepped out onto a cobble-stone road. Around him were stone buildings, and people walking about dressed in normal clothes. Well, normal-ish, if a bit old fashioned. He listened to the chattered conversations all around him but realised that they were in another language.

A newspaper page coasted past him in the gutter, floating on a gust of wind, and he caught it. At least now he had a good idea of where he was: Russia. Though he couldn't speak the language or read the words, he recognised the lettering. He looked for the date, finding that while the words were in Russian, he could at least understand the numbers.

It was 1902. He still wasn't sure exactly how long he'd been gone, as gauging time on the other side of the anomalies was difficult, but this was the closest he'd been to home in all that time. He wondered briefly if there was a way to leave a message for his family to find in his time, to let them know he was alright, but he what good would it do? By the time they got it, he would have died of old age anyway.

It didn't take him long to realise that it was easier to survive in the past than it was in a town. Back there, if he needed food he killed and cooked it. Here, he was forced to resort to stealing money from passers by in order to buy things, but then he had no idea what the coins were that he took. Unfortunately, the lack of food was making him slower, and it almost got him caught once and left him running from the police. He bolted back to the alley he had been sleeping in, stumbling and grabbing onto the wall to regain his balance.

As he sat down on the ground, his head began to spin and he realised just how weak he was. Running that short distance had taken all of his energy. He needed food; he'd had barely anything for the past two days, only what little he could buy with the money he'd stolen.

Well, that was one thing he could do something about. Getting to his feet again, Patrick went back out of the alley between the two buildings. They were both residential buildings that appeared to be boarding houses- he had seen a number of people come and go, too many for a single family. He could get into the kitchens and find some food before they even knew he'd been in.

At least that was the plan. He was just opening the heavy wooden door to the pantry when a middle aged woman came rushing at him, yelling at him in Russian and swinging what looked like a poker. Patrick just didn't have the energy to fight her, instead grabbing whatever was close at hand and fleeing.

Sitting in the alley, eating slightly stale bread and salted meat, Patrick made a decision. He had survived worse than this, but before he had always understood the rules. In the wild, it was simple; you did what you had to for survival, whether it was hunting for food or killing an enemy for defence, and this was no different just because it was a town.

Patrick was getting quite good at removing money pouches from gentlemen's pockets without the owners noticing, but the small amounts he got from them weren't even enough for food some days and, in the end, he found other ways get money. He had discovered that people in this part of town, men, were happy to pay him for other skills he had, and if dropping to his knees and sucking a stranger's cock a few times got him food and a place to stay then so be it. How different was it from Kristof? At least now they were paying him.

Sometimes they took him to a room in a boarding house, sneaking him in without anyone else seeing, sometimes to an alley, but it didn't really matter. What he cared about were the coins they put into his hand afterwards. After a good night, he could afford to stay in a hostel room. It never lasted long enough, but at least he could get cleaned up and sleep in a real bed, or eat a hot meal before he ran out of money and had to leave again.

Patrick had seen the young man watching him a couple of times, standing at the end of the street and ducking out of sight as soon as he realised he'd been seen. The third time, he didn't duck away, instead he approached cautiously.

"How much for all night?" he asked in heavily accented English.

Patrick eyed the man, assessing him, and smiled. The man was a first-timer; he had no idea what he was doing, which meant that he wouldn't know if Patrick was trying to fleece him for everything he had.

"Thirty."

It was a number plucked from mid air but to his surprise, the man nodded in agreement.

"You will come with me?"

And he got a warm place to sleep too. Not bad, Patrick thought, following the man through the streets to a semi-abandoned building. The windows on the lower floor was boarded over but the man led him to the second floor. Despite appearances, the house was lived in but the lower floor looked like a museum. The furniture was covered with huge white dust sheets and the man glanced at the doorway almost reverently. He opened the door at the top of the stairs, waiting for Patrick to enter.

"I am Ethan Dobrowski," the man told him. Seeing Patrick's frown at his name, he smiled. "I know, Ethan is not a Russian name, but my mother was from Engand. She taught me English."

"Look, this is real nice and all but you brought me here for a reason, didn't you?" Patrick said.

Ethan nodded, the smile fading. "I wanted to speak to you before, but I did not think you would if I did not pay for you to. I live alone since ma died." He looked a bit embarrassed as he admitted, "I am not good at speaking to people, but even I wish for company."

"You just want me to keep you company? You don't want to fuck?"

Patrick found it hard to grasp; everybody wanted something. Except Charlotte and Jacob. They had helped him that night without asking for anything in return. Everyone else wanted something from him in exchange.

Ethan shook his head. "I will still pay you, if that is your concern."

In the end, Patrick sighed. "Keep your money; I'll stay."

The look on the other man's face made losing the money worthwhile. He smiled as though he was genuinely delighted for Patrick's company and it was for that reason that he had chosen to stay.

"Would you like something to eat? I can cook; Ma taught me that, too. Papa said it was not work for a man, but then after he died…"

"You lost your dad as well as your mum?" Patrick asked, feeling a certain kinship for this odd, shy young man. He may not have lost his family to sickness, but he had lost them all the same.

"Yes, Papa died when I was young and then Ma caught the sickness. I took care of her until she passed," Ethan told him. "We had staff at one time, but they left. Katya was our housekeeper but she was scared of catching the sickness, and then our cook-" he paused before finishing and Patrick made a mental note to find out what he was about to say. "I was all Ma had left."

Patrick actually enjoyed Ethan's company, the young man gradually opening up to him the more they were together. He hadn't intended to go back after that first night but he liked Ethan and when the invitation had been extended to return, he went back. After all, Ethan gave him food and a place to stay but he still hadn't asked for anything.

"You know what I do, don't you?" Patrick asked him one evening. Maybe the other man didn't and that was why he was being so nice. "I steal and I let men screw men for money. Doesn't that bother you?"

Ethan just shook his head. "I think you are a good person, no matter what you have done. Now, would you like more wine with your dinner?"

Weeks went by and still Ethan didn't throw him out on the street or turn him in to the police. Since he had a roof over his head, Patrick's old habits stopped. He no longer needed to pick pockets or rent himself out to anyone who wanted him. Ethan had refused to take any contributions toward food, saying that he had invited Patrick to stay and that he didn't want money. Ethan's family had been very well off, as evidenced by the fact that they had a housekeeper, a cook and a maid at one time. Ethan had inherited everything, but instead of using the money to make his life better he lived in this run-down building, hiding away like a hermit. At one time this area had probably been the place to live for the wealthy, but times had changed.

Patrick still couldn't figure out Ethan himself, either. Sometimes it seemed like the man was interested in him, even flirting with him, but then in the next moment he would pull away again.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

Ethan looked surprised at the question, shaking his head.

"Boyfriend?"

Again a shake of his head, only this time Patrick saw the other man watching him from under his lashes before looking away quickly. Patrick reached out and curved a finger under Ethan's chin, making him look up, before leaning in to brush a soft kiss over his lips.

"You've never done this before, have you?"

Ethan nodded. "I have kissed a girl," he said defensively.

"But not a man?"

"Ma taught me that it was a sin," Ethan told him, studying him. "You should not speak of such things."

"Why not? Where I'm from it's not a big deal."

Ethan smiled, still watching him. "You are a curious man, Patrick Quinn. I would like to hear more about your home sometime."

"Maybe later," Patrick told him, moving in closer and kissing him again. This time he felt Ethan relax under his hands and kiss him back.

~.~

He heard them one evening, heard the taunts being shouted moments before Ethan came into the house and slammed the door behind him. Patrick looked out of the window to see two men at the opposite side of the street, leaning on the wall. When they saw him looking out of the window, one of them stooped down and picked up a rock, hurling it at the house.

When he didn't hear Ethan come into the room, Patrick went to find him. The other man was in his bedroom, the curtains closed, sitting on the floor.

"Are you alright? What was that about?"

Ethan just shrugged his shoulders. "It doesn't matter."

"It does if they upset you. I can go get rid of them-"

"No!" Ethan said hastily. "If you go to them it will be worse." He reached out to stop Patrick from going anyway.

"Tell me what they said."

Ethan just stood and took Patrick by the hand, pulling him in to a tight hug.

"Just forget it, please."

But he couldn't. After he saw them the next day, shouting something at Ethan as he passed by, he started walking with the other man if he went out in the hope that they would leave him alone and for a while they did.

Unfortunately, it wasn't for long. As they walked home, Patrick heard the comment, followed by laughter and turned to see the youths outside the house again.

"What did they say?" he demanded.

Ethan sighed, as though realising that Patrick wasn't going to stop asking. "One of them saw you on the street before I met you. They said I am paying you. That you are a prostitute and I am sinning by laying with a man."

Patrick really didn't care what they called him, after all it was true. He had been doing that. Ethan, however, didn't deserve to be taunted; he was a nice person. Turning on his heel before Ethan could stop him, Patrick stormed across the street and had laid one of the men out cold before the others even reacted. Punching the second one as hard as he could before adding a well-aimed kick to his kneecap, Patrick turned his attention to the third man. Grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, his fist bunching the material so tightly that it was choking the man, he dragged him closer so that their faces were almost touching.

"You speak English? I'm sure you do a bit, or at least one of you will," he growled, seeing that the other two were stirring again. "Now you listen to me. Leave him alone or you're going to have me to deal with, understand?"

From the way the man's eyes widened, he understood the message even if the words were foreign to him. Ethan released him and turned away, going back to Ethan.

"You should not have done that," Ethan told him. "You should have left them; they will probably be worse now but I liked seeing you hurt them. I have always ignored them."

The more Patrick learned about the situation, the more he wanted to hurt those idiots. Ethan told him that they used to be friends, growing up together as children. Then an old cook of the Dobrowski family had guessed Ethan's attractions ran toward men rather than women. Once she began spreading the gossip, that was it. Years of friendship were gone in an instant, the intolerance of homosexuality in this era breaking them apart. As Patrick knew all too well from his experiences here, men weren't against it in practice, just in voice. It did explain why Ethan rarely left the house, unwilling to face the whispers and rumours, and now the more vocal threats.

"They used to leave me alone, to pretend I did not exist," Ethan told him.

_And then you brought me home_, Patrick thought, though when he voiced it, Ethan protested.

"I am glad that I approached you that night," he said.

Patrick was too, if he was being honest. He hated the idea that he had messed up this poor man's life, causing him trouble, but he was still glad that Ethan had brought him home.

"Let's get away from here," he said suddenly. "We can leave and go somewhere else where they won't bother you."

Ethan smiled. "Back to your home?"

"Not exactly. I can't go back there, not at the moment, but there are other places. If I tell you, you'll think I'm crazy but I swear I'm not." At Ethan's promise, he continued. "There are these gateways…"

~.~

They never got to leave, though. Two days later Patrick returned to Ethan's home after a trip to the markets. He was going to cook tonight, or at least try, and had needed a few things. When he got back, he saw the door partly open. Ethan never left the door open. Patrick put the box down just inside the door and went in cautiously, looking for any signs that the intruder was still inside. It was still and silent in the flat, no movement just belongings scattered across the floor as though knocked over in a struggle.

"Ethan? Are you here?"

Patrick heard a muffled sob and hurried toward the bathroom.

"What the fuck happened? Are you alright? Oh shit, we need to get you to a doctor."

Patrick crouched down beside Ethan's beaten body, the man sitting with his knees to his chest, pressed back in between the basin stand and the wall. He was completely naked and Patrick could see the bruises covering most of his body. When he looked up, it was obvious that his nose was broken as well as having a black eye and a massive dark bruise along his cheekbone.

"They were looking for you," Ethan said quietly, flinching in pain as he moved. "I told you that they would make it worse."

Pushing down the urge to go out and hit something or someone, Patrick helped Ethan up and into the bedroom.

"No doctor," Ethan told him when Patrick returned with whatever medical supplies he could find. He coughed, then doubled over as the action pulled at his bruised ribs. As he did so, Patrick caught sight of the boot-sized bruises across his back. Ethan must have tried to protect himself and they'd just carried on kicking him when he was already down.

Ethan coughed again, this time taking his hand away from his mouth and looking in horror at the traces of blood on his skin. He turned to Patrick with wide, terrified eyes.

"That's it; you're going to the hospital whether you want to or not," Patrick told him, getting up gently pulling trousers and a shirt onto Ethan and finding him some shoes. It was a sign of how scared the man was that didn't object.

~.~

He stood in the hospital ward, trying to keep out of the way as a stern Matron in a starched white apron and blue smock was ordering him out of the room while the doctor examined Ethan. Patrick stood his ground, refusing to move; he had faced down a lot worse than her and he had promised Ethan that he wouldn't leave him alone. He knew that the news wouldn't be good even though he didn't understand much of what the doctor said to the nurse who was assisting. Ethan had been teaching him to speak Russian but none of what he'd learned covered this.

An hour later that same stern-faced Matron was relaying sympathies through an intermediary, a young man from the waiting area who spoke English. She had been reluctant to even speak to him to begin with, as he wasn't related in any way to Ethan, giving in only when Patrick insisted. It seemed that Ethan had suffered internal injuries from the beating and despite the surgeon's efforts, they had been unable to save him. The bleeding was too severe and by the time they managed to repair the damage, Ethan was dead.

~.~

To be continued…


	4. Chapter 4

Bad Place Alone (4/4)

There were only a handful of people at Ethan's funeral, all watching Patrick suspiciously. They gossiped about him in low voices and he heard Ethan's name mentioned more than once. They must have heard the rumours about who he was, some of them even coming here just to see if they were correct. He wanted to tell them to go fuck themselves and quit staring at him, or tell them that he'd loved Ethan, or as close as he'd ever got to love, but he didn't. He remained silent and endured the whispers and stares out of respect for Ethan.

That night, he waited in a shadowy corner of the street, between two buildings. The man he was watching had just walked into a run-down house at the end of the road, and he seemed to be alone. Patrick smiled. Good. He had been patient, waiting for the right time, and that time was now.

Patrick followed the youth in to the house, moving silently, and closed the door behind him.

~.~

The neighbourhood was filled with activity, the police taking the young man's body from the house as the other residents watched. Patrick noticed their attention shift as he walked by, heard them begin to whisper among themselves, and took great pleasure in their disgusted reactions as he turned and blew a kiss at one of the men.

Patrick found the other two a few days later. They had left the boarding house they were both living in and for a while, Patrick had lost them. It was just luck that he recognised the young man in the street and, following him, he found that both men were hiding together. They seemed jumpy even before he strolled into the room and closed the door behind him, blocking their only exit.

"Remember me?" he asked them. "I said that if you ever messed with Ethan again, you'd have me to deal with."

The younger of the two men, only in his late teens, made a run for the door but Patrick's reactions were quicker. He struck out with one hand, catching the man across the throat. As the man dropped to the ground, gasping for breath through his crushed windpipe, Patrick slid a knife out of his jacket. He saw their faces turn ghostly white as they saw the dried blood of their late friend on the blade.

"Why did you single out Ethan? He was a good man; he never hurt anyone. Who are you to tell him how to live his life?"

If they understood, they didn't answer. One still sat on the floor, a hand to his throat, the other too focussed on the knife. He noticed the man on the ground edging nearer to the door again. "Don't do that."

The man froze, and Patrick looked to the other man again.

"I should do what you did to him," he continued. "Strip you, humiliate you, and then beat the shit out of you. See how you like it."

He could see them thinking that he was just one man and that they could take him and get out of here, but he wasn't worried. As the one on the floor began shuffling toward the door once again, obviously thinking he hadn't been noticed, Patrick turned and slammed his foot down on the man's knee. He heard the bones crunch and the man yowl in pain.

"I said, don't do that!"

Didn't these people care in the slightest about what they'd done to Ethan? Well, they would care soon enough if only for a short while.

~.~

The story was all over the newspaper, the vicious killings and the murderer on the loose. Patrick sat in the sitting room of Ethan's house, looking across at the small portrait propped up on the mantel.

"I told you I wouldn't let them get away with what they did to you," he said to the picture, holding up the newspaper page. "They got what they deserved."

He'd had someone translate the parts of the story he couldn't, having to hold back his frustration as he listened. There was no mention of these people attacking an innocent man, or about the kind of people they really were. Instead, the newspaper made them out to be perfect citizens, cruelly murdered for no reason at all. These three got all the sympathy but poor Ethan's death at their hands never even got a mention.

That night he left town. It didn't feel right, staying here now that Ethan was gone, and so he set off walking.

~.~

It seemed as though no time at all had passed when he spied a familiar face in the crowd. Her dark hair was piled in curls on top of her head, her outfit looking just as out of place here as it had through the gateways in that dinosaur-filled world. He wasn't sure that she had even seen him at first, but then she looked right at him.

"I have been so worried about you," she said when she reached him. "We didn't know where you had gone or if you'd been hurt. What happened, Patrick?"

He shook his head. "It's not Patrick any more. It's Ethan."

"Who is Ethan?"

"Someone who deserved to live a lot more than Patrick Quinn. I'm Ethan Dobrowski now."

Her face paled at that name and she lowered her voice. "The newssheets said that Ethan Dobrowski had murdered three people."

"What? He never hurt anyone!" He couldn't even get that right. All he had succeeded in doing was to drag an innocent man's name through the mud, to implicate him in the murders.

"So was it you who did those things?" Charlotte persisted.

"I did it, but I'm not sorry. They brought it on themselves for what they did to Ethan."

Charlotte studied him for a moment. "Come back with me, Patr- sorry, Ethan."

"Did you come here looking for me?"

Charlotte shook her head. "We didn't know where to look. A gateway opened and it was good fortune that opened it here, letting me find you."

He was tempted to go back with her, back to the place where no one fitted in and so being the outsider wasn't a big deal. While he liked being back in civilisation and being able to sleep in a bed, he knew that he didn't belong here. He was nothing here, a street person who had to resort to selling himself or stealing just to get money for food.

"Okay. Not like there's anything here for me anymore."

The gateway had opened up into a field about ten minutes from the village, and when they reached it they found a welcoming party. Jacob stood at the head of the group, the others looking to him; he had taken Kristof's place as leader. He smiled in recognition but before he could speak, Charlotte interrupted him.

"Everyone, this is Ethan. He's coming back to us," she told Jacob.

Jacob nodded but the look in his eyes said that he wanted an explanation later, and held out his hand.

"Ethan, welcome back."

It took him a little time to get used to people calling him Ethan, but he found that hearing it brought back a lot less painful memories than the name Patrick. So, Patrick disappeared in Russia as Ethan carried on with his life.

There was one thing he wished hadn't changed, though, and that was a young woman in the group called Emily. There were only Charlotte and Jacob remaining from those he had known before, the others having left when a gateway opened back into a time they could live in. Emily was one of four new wanderers that they had collected along the way. She didn't approve of him and wasn't afraid of showing it. He couldn't even speak alone with Charlotte without her barging in with some made-up reason to interrupt, and he was aware of what she thought of him. As soon as she heard the name Ethan Dobrowski, she made it her mission never to leave him with Charlotte, acting like a protective mother bear, as though she thought that he would hurt the other woman. He never would; Charlotte had been good to him and he considered her a friend. That was why Emily's attitude made him angry. She had no idea what had happened back in Russia, nor did she ever bother to find out.

Charlotte and Jacob knew; they had taken him aside one evening wanting an explanation of his new name and of the stories they had seen in the newssheets. While neither of them could condone his actions, it showed on their faces that they understood. What Charlotte found harder to accept was the utter lack of remorse he felt. He had killed three people but he just couldn't make himself feel any sympathy for his victims.

No matter what she thought, she still readily defended him to Emily, however.

He heard her one night talking to Emily, though it was closer to arguing. He hadn't meant to listen but when he heard his name mentioned he wanted to hear what she was saying about him this time. He smiled when he heard Charlotte's voice cut Emily off mid-sentence.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. He's not a bad person, not really, but some things have happened to him. He's been through a lot."

"So have we all!" Emily protested. "What is so special about him?"

"It's not my place to speak of it," Charlotte said. "I won't give up on him, though. No matter if you already have before you even got to know him."

Ethan slipped away quietly so that they wouldn't know that he had been eavesdropping.

~.~

Six years later he found himself back in his own time but it wasn't the happy homecoming that he would have liked. They had brought Charlotte here in the hope of getting her medical treatment. She was gravely ill and nothing that they could find in the past could help her. When the gateway opened and they realised where it led, he and Emily had brought her through but they were too late. She fell to her illness shortly after arriving and Ethan had to mourn yet another friend. Unfortunately, their way back through the gateway was blocked by black-clad men with guns who had appeared soon after they came through.

Hiding in the shadows, he and Emily had tried to remain unseen, but one of the men had noticed them as they tried to get back to the gateway. Despite Charlotte's request that she take care of Ethan, Emily fled when the strangers came toward them, leaving him alone once more.

Good riddance, he thought. He didn't need looking after; he had been taking care of himself for a long time now.

He tried once to return to the theatre where the gateway had opened up after Emily fled, to try and retrieve Charlotte's body. She deserved a proper funeral and not some strangers dealing with her, but he couldn't get close. He was seen almost as soon as he went back into the theatre but he dispatched the man easily before he could fire a shot, getting away before any back-up could arrive.

On his way out he snatched a newspaper from a rubbish bin near to the door of one of the offices and looked at the date. Then he double-checked it.

He'd been gone for nearly sixteen years. He was thirty years old but he'd been just a kid when he left. Gauging time on the other side of the gateways was difficult but he hadn't realised that so much had passed. He had always hoped to get back to his family again, even when he told himself that he didn't need or want them, or when he felt the now-familiar resentment toward Danny for not coming to get him. The sight of a public telephone box across the street had him pushing back the sudden urge to call home but so much time had passed. Maybe it was better if he stayed gone.

Ethan's resolve lasted three days before he went back to the phone box. He had some money that he had taken from a man who had left his wallet in his jacket pocket, within easy reach of Ethan's fingers, and so he waited until nightfall and went to the phone. He still didn't want to be seen by the soldiers.

He held his breath as he pressed the final number. He was going to talk to them; would they be happy to hear from him? What would he say?

"_I'm sorry, the number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again. I'm sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and-"_

The automated female voice kept repeating the message over and over and Ethan stared at it in disbelief. They'd gone. His family hadn't even waited for him to come back, they'd just gone. He had been right; they didn't want him back. His fingers touched the edge of the photograph he kept in his pocket, one of him and Danny taken just before he'd gone in to that house. He didn't even need to look at it to know what it showed, he'd seen it so many times. He had kept it with him all these years in the hope that he'd get to see his brother again, but now that hope was gone too.

~.~

It was only after he talked to Danny again, after his brother jumped through a gateway for him, trapping himself as well as Ethan, that he realized how wrong he had been. Danny hadn't abandoned him; his brother had been searching for him, believing that he was alive even when everyone else thought he was dead. But Danny hadn't known about the gateways until very recently so he couldn't have come through to look.

The bond he had always shared with Danny was still there, even though they had both changed in so many ways from the kids they had been. The more time they spent together, the more Ethan's mind kept turning to the long-buried fantasies he had always harboured toward his brother. Sometimes, late at night when he had slept in his bed at home, his thoughts of Danny had become more than brotherly affection. Back then it had confused him, even disgusted him a little, but now it felt different, more acceptable somehow. What surprised him was that Danny had accepted his advances, exploring a physical relationship with him.

He had expected Danny to turn away from the relationship they developed whilst trapped as soon as they returned to the present, but he didn't. Danny had done as he always had and protected him against those at the ARC who wanted to lock him up and throw away the key.

Then came Becker. When the former soldier came into their relationship he had worried that Becker and Danny would just pick up where they had been before Danny's time away, and that Becker was only tolerating him for Danny's sake but that wasn't the case. Becker seemed to genuinely care about him.

Now he had Danny and Becker, two people who loved him for the misfit he was, never asking anything more from him than he offered. He had felt guilty about betraying the man he thought loved back in Russia, feeling as though he was somehow cheapening his namesake's memory by allowing himself to get attached again. It took him a while to realise that it changed nothing, just that he was finally starting to move on with his life.

He still kept expecting it all to go wrong, just like it always did; he was a jinx to people he cared about and he didn't want to see anything bad happen to Becker or Danny. So far, however, nothing had.

Who knew, maybe his luck had changed.

~.~

End.


End file.
